


Paranoia Could Save Your Life

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: An Internet Riddle, Conspiracy Theories, Gen, On the Run, Political assassinations, murders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-03 17:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20270614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Mozzie should have felt vindicated when all his conspiracy theories were coming true. Instead, he found himself running for his life. When Neal and Peter try to help, they come into the crosshairs, as well, and must go on the lam.





	1. An Explosive Situation

Neal had just finished dinner in his loft and had settled back to catch the news on the television. It had been quiet these last few weeks during Mozzie’s absence. It certainly wasn’t unusual for the quirky little man to go incommunicado from time to time, and Neal wasn’t always told beforehand that Moz would be in the wind. Later, Neal would find out that he had taken it into his head to visit Mr. Jeffries in his old hometown of Detroit. Other jaunts were more exotic, with short hops to Paris or Milan, and even a Greek island or two. On occasion, he had been known to seek quiet solitude by camping out in his version of Walden Pond to commune with the pure essence of nature. Neal tried not to be envious of Mozzie’s freedom to come and go as he pleased. After all, the bald man wasn’t the one with a constricting monitoring anklet keeping him in check.

Immediately after Neal turned on the tv, the news was featuring a breaking story. Apparently, there was an abandoned warehouse in Queens currently burning out of control. A reporter on the scene stood with a microphone in her hand and a raging conflagration at her back. She informed viewers that this was a seven-alarm blaze that firefighters were valiantly trying to bring under control, and then she remarked how fortuitous it was that the structure had been a derelict, empty property.

Suddenly Neal sat forward as his heart jumped into his throat. He recognized _Friday_, one of Mozzie’s safe havens whenever the little conspiracy theorist felt his privacy had been compromised. Neal, who never prayed, was suddenly beseeching any higher power to assure him that Mozzie hadn’t been inside that cavernous structure when it became an inferno. He immediately pulled out his cellphone and sent up the bat signal. When the call went unanswered, Neal’s terror kicked up a notch.

“Get a grip, Caffrey,” Neal berated himself as he tried to think logically. Mozzie had been absent for three weeks. If he had returned from his globe-trotting adventures, he would have been in contact to say he was home again. That hadn’t happened, so maybe Mozzie wasn’t in _Friday_ tonight. But then Neal’s glass half-empty thought was that Mozzie was a free spirit and he didn’t need to check in with his friend like a teenager checking in with a parent after a late-night curfew. Neal also knew that Mozzie used _Friday_ as a sort of science lab containing all kinds of industrial equipment as well as flammable chemicals. What if a science fair project had gotten out of control? There would be no sleep for Neal that night.

The next morning, Neal immediately sought out his handler near the breakroom in the White Collar office. “Peter, there was a huge warehouse fire last night in Queens,” he began.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Peter answered distractedly as he balanced a cup of coffee and a pile of files on the way up the stairs.

“Well, I need to know if the firefighters found anyone inside,” Neal said with a serious expression on his face.

“What’s your interest in this?” Peter was suddenly very alert.

“Peter, can’t you just do one little favor without asking a suspicious question?” Neal replied shortly, trying to keep his impatience under control. “Just place an inquiry with the locals to see if a body was recovered.”

“Neal,” Peter was suddenly glowering in his CI’s face, “who’s body are you afraid they might find? What aren’t you telling me?”

Neal looked belligerent but Peter also saw the apprehensive fear in the young man’s blue eyes. “Neal, tell me why you’re so worried about some warehouse in Queens. Who are you afraid may have been inside of it?” he asked in a gentler tone of voice.

“Mozzie,” Neal whispered miserably. “It may have been a place he would go from time to time.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, like a bolt hole when things got dicey and he wanted to lay low. What had the little guy been up to lately that he felt the need to go under the radar?”

“That’s just it, Peter,” Neal explained. “I have no idea what he was doing the last few weeks. We haven’t talked, so I’m in the dark and very concerned at this point.”

Peter found himself putting an arm around Neal’s shoulder. “Look, Buddy, I know you’re worried, but Havisham’s like a cockroach. He’s capable of surviving a nuclear holocaust.”

“That condescending statement is neither funny nor helpful,” Neal replied as he shook off Peter’s consoling arm. “Please, just make one phone call, Peter, and then I’ll feel better.”

So, Peter did as he was asked and called the fire marshal. He then turned to Neal and related what he had learned. “According to the Fire Chief, the building is still smoldering and has the occasional hot spot flareups. He won’t be sending any responders or investigators in until it’s cooled off and less of a safety hazard.”

Peter felt a bit bad for his partner and his obvious concern for a friend. “Look, Neal, stop thinking the worst. I’m betting Mozzie will turn up soon like a bad penny, and he’ll probably have the audacity to make an insurance claim under the auspices of some pseudo-corporation's name. Then he can laugh his ass off all the way to the bank.”

“Maybe,” Neal muttered, although it was obvious that he wasn’t totally convinced.

That night found Neal lying dejectedly on a chaise lounge on his terrace. “Where are you, Mozzie?” he repeatedly asked the quiet lengthening shadows.

It was as if the universe heard Neal’s pleas and took pity on him because, without any warning, a pigeon flew past and landed on the balustrade that framed the distant lights of the city. The feathered creature began marching back and forth across the brickwork, cooing softly and bobbing its small head.

“Estelle?” Neal whispered in an astonished tone.

Of course, the avian drop-in visitor didn’t give an answer, but Neal noted the tiny band wrapped around her twig-like leg. She placidly allowed Neal to pick her up and remove a pared down version of a message, hopefully from Neal’s missing friend. It was an address on Canal Street. The message was rather cryptic when it urged Neal to go down deep—_subterranean_, was the actual word used. Neal knew this had to have come from Mozzie, and the vise-like grip on the young man’s heart loosened a bit.

Neal hustled to the address under the cover of darkness. It was a rather isolated spot with the empty, boarded up storefronts facing the street all festooned with a variety of vulgar graffiti. He didn’t see another human being, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close by. Mozzie’s message had said to go subterranean. Neal happened to know that under his feet was a very snug, secluded space. Over the years as progress had marched on, many stations of the New York City subway system had fallen into disuse and were abandoned when no longer used by the Transit Authority, or when the platform stops were changed. The homeless recognized the value in what others had forgotten. Many found refuge here, far from the dangers lurking above ground. Was Mozzie in danger and that’s why he had literally “gone to ground under the asphalt?”

Neal cautiously descended the concrete stairs into the darkness. When his eyes adjusted, he could make out the shapes of actual human beings hunkered down along the walls. The occasional squatter had a small candle alight, but it was still hard to make out faces. Since everyone seemed to be ignoring him, he kept walking through the tunnel using his phone’s flashlight to guide him. When Neal came to a junction, he knew he had to make a decision to turn left or right. His dilemma was solved, or at least he thought it was, when his flashlight illuminated an arrow directing him to the right. He walked on another thirty yards or so before he detected a soft glow coming from one of the many tucked away alcoves. When he glanced in, he was taken aback by what he saw. Seated on frayed old lawn chairs were two bedraggled figures on either side of a small kerosene lamp. One appeared to be an old crone of indeterminate age. She had a halo of frizzled grey hair and was wearing a grimy army surplus jacket, over-sized sweatpants, and torn canvas sneakers on her feet. Her companion was equally grubby, wearing a threadbare flannel shirt and jeans and a knit stocking cap. His thick glasses were something of a clue, and Neal was astounded to see a disguised Mozzie in the flesh.

“Moz, is that really you?” Neal asked in a rush.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Mozzie answered, “doing what I must to stay alive. And this gracious lady is Mildred, a kind soul who offered me refuge during my time of need.”

The old lady squinted up at Neal. “My, my, aren’t you the pretty one,” she cackled. “Come into my humble parlor, Handsome, and take a load off,” she added as she pushed an empty milk crate his way.

“What the hell is going on?” Neal demanded to know.

Mozzie shot his hostess a sidelong glance which caused Mildred to rise to her feet. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, fellas. I know when I’m not wanted within earshot. So, I guess I’ll just take myself off to the loo in this baronial palace.”

“Thank you, my dear lady,” the missing bald man called out to her retreating back.

“Mozzie, I was worried about you,” Neal began in earnest. “Did you know that _Friday_ went up in flames last night? I was afraid you may have been inside.”

“Of course I know,” Mozzie said bitterly. “Why do you think I’m now passing myself off as a grubby hobo in the bowels of the city? And, just so you know, I actually was right there in my safe house until that rather dire incident took place.”

“How did the fire start?” Neal asked.

“Because somebody intentionally set it ablaze,” Mozzie claimed.

“Are you really sure of that, Moz?” Neal said skeptically. “You had that old fire trap all tricked out by jury-rigging electrical and gas lines. Maybe there was a malfunction in one of your connections and that caused the whole thing to go boom. You’re lucky to have gotten out alive. Maybe you should stop being so paranoid.”

“It ain’t paranoia if they’re really out to get you,” Mozzie insisted. “And, just to be clear, I’m not lucky, Neal. I’m wily and smart and always on my guard. I had surveillance monitors all around the outside perimeter of my space, and I saw a team of black-clad ninjas make their approach. I always have a bailout plan, and this one was a cement trap door in the floor. I simply slid down to the empty sewer conduit and made my way to safety. Hopefully, the killers still believe I perished, but, nonetheless, I have to keep on the move. I’ll be blowing this pop stand after our little powwow. Big Brother is always watching and ready to pounce. They probably know that you’re my only friend, and they’re keeping tabs on you. Most likely, they tracked your anklet to the subway entrance. Hopefully, the tons of thick concrete overhead may have temporarily interrupted the signal and that can buy me a window of time to make another escape.”

Neal quickly pulled up his pant leg and saw that the green light on his anklet had winked out and was totally dark. He knew there was going to be hell to pay when Peter got wind of the interruption in the transmission via a call from the Marshals. Hopefully, he wouldn’t call out the cavalry until he managed to locate Neal himself.

“Why would you need to run, Moz?” Neal quickly asked in a perplexed tone. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

“A government-sanctioned conspiracy originating at the top of the food chain,” Neal’s pal answered smugly.

When Neal groaned and rolled his eyes, Mozzie hastened to win his friend over. “Do not mock me, Neal. It’s true, and I managed to make my clandestine escape with the damning evidence in my pocket. Unfortunately, that information has now etched a very big bull’s eye smack dab on my back!”

“So, show me the goods,” Neal said to his bald cohort in crime.

Mozzie almost hesitated, but he finally dug into the pocket of his jeans and came up with an innocuous little gismo. “To be precise, it’s a flash drive which you must promise to guard with your life. After you watch it on a secure computer, then you can decide what to do with it.”

“Yeah, maybe I should have a look at whatever is causing you to break out in hives,” Neal said quietly.

“Be warned, mon frère, it’s not a little movie matinee newsreel for the faint of heart. There is a video of an actual assassination,” Mozzie whispered as the lamplight reflected the dilated pupils of his eyes. “A certain someone took out one of the aspiring candidates hoping to throw his hat into the ring during the next presidential election race!”

“How did you even get hold of something that radioactive?” Neal asked apprehensively.

“Oh, my friend, it wasn’t easy to track that puppy down,” Mozzie crowed. “Take a seat on your milk crate and let me fill you in on a very long and convoluted tale.”


	2. The Scavenger Hunt

Mozzie began a recitation of a very serpentine odyssey that caused Neal to scratch his head in bewilderment. In the course of the story, Mozzie led him down some very strange rabbit holes that were beyond the young con man’s comprehension. It all began very simply before diverging into the incredulous.

“_Friday_ was a very special safe house and quite different from all the rest,” Mozzie said almost nostalgically. “Contained within those bland cement walls was a virtual plethora of the most advanced technological instruments in the world. My computers had vast capabilities probably only rivaled by the ones at NSA.”

“So, who were you spying on, Moz?” Neal asked hesitantly. “It must have been somebody really connected to warrant an attempt on your life.”

“For your information, this whole deadly game started out quite innocently,” Mozzie replied. “I was merely trolling the Dark Web when I hit upon a curious image. It was a colored depiction of a Chimaera. In case your ancient Greek mythology is a bit rusty, that’s a fantasy hybrid monster with the head and body of a lion as well as the head of a goat attached to its back. To complete the whole picture, this creature also has a tail that ends in the head of a snake.”

“Sounds charming,” Neal remarked, “and not something I’d want to meet in a dark alley.”

“Yeah, but it was intriguing because under the image were the words ‘Chimaera 2020. Open if you dare.’ Of course, I did dare,” Mozzie informed his listener, “and it led me on a scavenger hunt. When I clicked on the image, I was invited to play a game to find hidden clues in the image that would lead to a very special treasure. The message explained that anyone playing the game had to find two more numbers hidden in the chimaera, and then multiply them together with the number 2020. If a player was lucky enough to get that far and come up with a sum, they were to add a dot com to the string of numbers which would then take them to a web address with the next clue.”

“Did you ever think this may have been a hoax?” Neal deadpanned.

Mozzie shrugged. “Well, maybe I wondered if it was all an elaborate scheme by some bored technophile with too much time on his hands. But I was curious, nonetheless. You know how I relish an intellectual challenge, Neal.”

“I do know,” Neal agreed. “Go on, Moz.”

“It did take a while for me to find those two numbers. I virtually took the image apart, pixel by pixel. Finally, I resorted to less invasive methods. I hit the jackpot simply by using the height and width dimensions of the image and multiplying them together with 2020. I was flabbergasted when it actually worked and took me to another site with another chimaera. This time I used an application called OutGuess, which is a universal steganographic tool that extracts hidden information in the redundant bits of data sources.”

“Okay, Moz, now I’m totally lost,” Neal claimed.

“No matter, mon frère,” Mozzie chirped. “In a nutshell, I managed to extrapolate another web address which took me to a new image. This time it was actually a book of runes. Of course, I immediately purchased a volume from Amazon and set to work using every cipher in my arsenal of decryption. This riddle became an obsession for me until I managed to locate a recurring sequence of coordinates that matched three foreign cities—Madrid, Tokyo, and Stockholm. By this time, I was totally focused on an endgame, so I flew to each location and blindly scoured my surroundings for more clues. They really weren’t that hard to find. Within a half mile of each airport, I found a poster tacked up on a telephone pole with the image of a chimaera and a four digit number under the picture. The posters in each city had different numbers.”

“No wonder you were away for weeks,” Neal said.

“Yep, it was a tedious trek around the globe but also exhilarating,” Mozzie claimed. “Having been successful, I hurried back to New York to use my super computers to manipulate the three numbers. I wasn’t sure if the digits 2020 had to be thrown into the mix. Needless to say, it took a great deal of time.”

“Mozzie, tell me honestly,” Neal asked curiously. “What did you imagine was really going on?”

“Actually, many possible scenarios crossed my mind,” Mozzie admitted. “As I said before, perhaps some very talented computer genius just liked to play games. Then I thought that maybe some manufacturer in the private sector was building up the hype for some new software game. I believe Microsoft did something like that before they launched their latest _Halo_ game a few years ago. I also had visions of our own government agencies known by their acronyms using a rather unique recruitment test for possible new eggheads to enlarge their think tanks. Britain did exactly that after World War II and the United States Navy did it more recently.”

“Did you ever think it was maybe something like a weird cult,” Neal posed the question. “I know you love your conspiracy theories, Moz, and this could have been some off-the-wall version of The New World Order.”

“Don’t knock them, Neal. That group of people may know what they’re talking about, especially about mass surveillance which has become invasively overblown and disgustingly abused. Nothing is sacred anymore—not our phone conversations, the strokes on our keyboards, our tweets, or even our social security numbers. The voyeuristic ghouls track our buying habits with cookies on the websites we visit and barcodes on the products we purchase. Not to mention, we are being RFID tagged and microchipped to death. We have absolutely no privacy, and we submit to that audacious travesty like lambs being led to the slaughter!”

“Calm down, Moz,” Neal held up his hands. “Just clue me in to how this scavenger hunt led to a murder.”

“Okay, sure—here’s the clincher,” Mozzie said in disgusted tone. “My computer kicked out three possible sequences of numbers that could possibly lead me to another website. I washed out with the first two, but the third was the jackpot. It was there that I found another image of the chimaera, but this time the lion’s fangs were dripping blood. Essentially, it was quite simple to click on that image, which immediately opened up a recorded video sequence lasting exactly 52 seconds. Those small microseconds of time documented a man’s murder.

“Don’t stop your story there,” Neal protested. “Fill in the details.”

Mozzie was very forthcoming. “An unknown someone managed to record a rather bucolic scene. It showed a man named Amos Wellsley fishing beside a lake in his home state of New Hampshire.”

Neal knitted his brow. “Wasn’t he the dark horse presidential wannabe who the talking heads on C-SPAN said was a hair’s breadth away from being a card carrying member of the right-wing John Birch Society? It was reported that he recently died of a heart attack when campers putting their canoes in the lake found his body.”

“Oh, the dude died alright, but it wasn’t his ticker that was the culprit,” Mozzie said sarcastically. “The video clearly shows a dark Ford Explorer drive right up to his fishing spot. Three men togged out in dark glasses and black overcoats get out, and Wellsley turns to face the lead interloper, thereby making it easy enough for me to identify the aspiring politico. However, the overcoated man accosting him still remains a mystery. The recording only shows a glimpse of the side of his face. If I had the advanced facial recognition software that the spooks are now using, I might get a hit. To continue with my story, Wellsley and the stranger exchange a few words, and then one of the other two goons steps forward and drives a hypodermic into Wellsley’s neck. It was just a matter of seconds before he collapses in a heap on the ground. My guess is that the syringe contained succinylcholine, a powerful and swiftly acting paralytic agent. A victim quickly dies when he no longer can draw a breath. That drug rapidly breaks down in the body and any blood drawn during the autopsy would come up clean.”

“So who do you think were the assassins?” Neal asked the obvious question.

“Most likely anyone who considered Wellsley’s possible political future to be a threat,” Mozzie answered. “He was gaining support from the grass roots populations across the heartland. New Hampshire would have supported a favorite son, and that would have definitely rocked the boat for a lot of candidates.”

“Okay, next question, Moz. Who do you think made the video?”

“Perhaps a bird watcher trying to record Carpodacus purpureus, an obsequious tiny purple finch which is the official state bird. The little drama that played out was much more than he bargained on getting on film for himself or any fellow enthusiasts.”

“You don’t believe that for a minute,” Neal chided.

“Of course not,” the sarcastic little bald man agreed. “An alternate theory is that one of those stupid spy eyes in the sky recorded it when it was making its daily circuit. The unexpected data payload was routinely downloaded to another human drone sitting behind a computer in Langley, Virginia or Fort Meade, Maryland. Perhaps when that analyst saw what had been recorded, he recognized the players and realized the implications of what he was witnessing because he knew a government-sanctioned hit when he saw one. Maybe he realized that this was not something he had signed on for when he pledged to protect fellow citizens from evil doers around the world. These were a trio of homegrown terrorists, and that may have caused him to grow some balls or the vestiges of a conscience. So, he decided to put the evidence out there instead of covering it up. He was probably hoping someone would have the tenacity to find it and become a whistleblower.”

“Well, from what you have told me, he certainly didn’t make it easy to find the evidence,” Neal remarked.

“Of course not,” Mozzie agreed. “He wanted someone intellectually gifted to solve his puzzle. Then he would have plausible deniability because everyone would think that a very talented hacker had broken through some very tough firewalls to make a surprise discovery that had the magnitude of an atomic bomb if it were detonated in the news media.”

“Are you sure the video is authentic?” Neal asked. “Could the images have been manipulated and it isn’t real?”

The little bald renegade snorted. “I have subjected it to every acid test in my arsenal and it passed with flying colors. It’s as real as those gold bars in Fort Knox, mon frère.”

Neal had another question. “Moz, how do you think the ‘men in black’ glommed onto you?”

Mozzie threw up his hands in exasperation. “How do you think, Neal? Someone is always watching, and when I opened that video, alarm bells went off in some deep caves within our government. Now those storm troopers want to track me down and obliterate my footprint on this earth so I can’t do anything with my knowledge.”

“So, now you’re putting the responsibility on my shoulders to decide what to do with this hot potato,” Neal said quietly.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Mozzie agreed. “I don’t have an in with the resources you have at your disposal. Just watch the flash drive, Neal, and then decide if you want to give it to the FBI or burn it. Now, it’s past time for you to make yourself scarce. I’ll show you another exit from these tunnels, and then I’m going to find Mildred and bid her a fond adieu before leaving the same way. Watch your balcony for Estelle. She can be the conduit for the exchange of information between us.”

When Neal eventually reached street level, his cellphone immediately started ringing. Of course, it was Peter. “What’s going on, Neal?” he fumed. “Your tracker went dark down on the Lower East Side, and the Marshals have been blowing up my phone demanding to know your whereabouts.”

“Sorry, Buddy,” Neal tried to douse his handler’s wrath. “I was out looking for Mozzie and he sometimes likes to explore those old subway tunnels located down here. I guess the tracker doesn’t work if you’re far enough under the ground.”

“Well, that’s something I’ll definitely keep in mind for future reference,” Peter retorted.

“I’m sure you will,” Neal responded. “Now I’m going home, so you can tell the Marshals to stand down from DEFCON 1.”

“Neal, you’re giving me grey hair,” Peter mumbled before he abruptly disconnected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for Mozzie's scavenger hunt can be found if you google Cicada 3301, an ongoing Internet puzzle that has yet to be solved.


	3. Power Shift

Neal arose a few hours later at 5 am. He quickly dressed and hustled to a small all-night café that also offered computer use for a small fee. He ordered coffee and a croissant and, by 6 am, he was settling himself in front of a screen located in a secluded and isolated corner. When the flash drive was inserted, it did, indeed, play out just as Mozzie had claimed.

To say that Neal was worried would have been an understatement. His longtime comrade in crime was in grave peril, but pulling the pin on a live grenade could put a lot of other people in harm’s way, as well. Mozzie was Neal’s friend, but then, so was Peter. Neal had to study the problem from many angles before deciding on a course of action. Of course, he could easily mail the thing to the newspaper or the local television station, but what if it was simply discarded as a distasteful hoax? Someone had to authenticate it first, someone with heavy clout and integrity. The logical choice was the FBI. But, was the FBI capable of holding their own against the big bullies in the sandbox? Would the CIA or NSA steamroll right over them? On the other hand, would the FBI actually agree to participate in a coverup for what they thought was the greater good? What if that Wellsley character had hidden depths and a traitorous agenda? There were so many disturbing questions.

By 9 am, when Neal strolled through the doors of the White Collar office, he still hadn’t reached a decision. However, he immediately sensed the tension in the air and climbed the steps to question his handler about the high degree of pent-up emotional angst around him.

“I’m glad you’re here, Neal, because we definitely need to have a very serious discussion about your little walkabout last night in Lower Manhattan,” Peter said with an edge to his voice.

“Sure, Peter,” Neal said uncertainly.

Peter continued to scowl. “The public hasn’t been informed yet about the catastrophic event that occurred just after midnight,” he intoned solemnly. “Some unknown person or persons released sarin nerve gas into the abandoned tunnels under Canal Street. The number of victims is rising every minute as more unidentified bodies are pulled out. We’re keeping a lid on things to prevent a public panic. Homeland Security is actually taking the lead on this inhumane crime against innocent victims.”

Suddenly, Neal found that he needed to sit down in the chair across from Peter’s desk. He must have gone pale because Peter’s tone suddenly sounded more concerned than suspicious. “Neal, you were right there at ground zero last night. Tell me what you know.”

“Not here, Peter,” Neal whispered. He was thinking that Mozzie was right about someone always watching or listening. Had “they” been eavesdropping on Neal’s conversation to Peter last night? Had Neal innocently led them right to Mozzie’s temporary safe haven? Had his friend gotten out in time? Most likely poor old Mildred hadn’t, nor had a lot of other down-on-their-luck souls who had probably never harmed anyone in their lives. Suddenly, Neal was the one who wanted to run away and hide from something so grotesquely evil that it was hard to comprehend.

“Okay, we can go back to my house to have our little discussion,” Peter relented when he sensed Neal’s fear.

“No!” Neal hissed. “Not your house, Peter. That could be dangerous.”

“You never panic, Neal,” Peter said quietly, “so, right now, you’re starting to freak me out.”

“Yeah, well, I’m freaking myself out, too,” the young man admitted.

“We definitely need to talk, Buddy,” Peter insisted. “How do you want to do it?”

“Can’t you just appropriate one of the extra company cars from the motor pool?” Neal asked hopefully. “We need to do a bit of one-stop shopping because I have to buy something before you can understand the gravity of this whole situation.”

Uncharacteristically, Peter agreed. Following Neal’s instructions, they made a stop at a big box store and purchased a Chrome Book with cash. Then they drove on to Sheepshead Bay, far away from Manhattan. As the car idled under an overhanging branch of a tree limb, Neal powered up the small laptop without accessing a Wi-Fi internet connection. He simply inserted the damning flash drive and let Peter watch the show. Peter replayed it several times before turning to his CI.

“Tell me how this thing came into your possession, Neal? And don’t leave any details out.”

So, Neal related the entire story that started when Mozzie curiously began a scavenger hunt. He even added all of the little bald man’s conspiracy theories for good measure. Peter was quiet for a long while before he spoke.

“So, whoever they are suspected that Mozzie had the knowledge and proof of a heinous crime being committed. It’s only logical to assume that he would make a copy of the murder or would tell someone about what he saw. These shadow people initially tried to incinerate both him and his evidence by burning down his safe house. When they ascertained that there wasn’t a body recovered from the warehouse, they realized their quarry was still at large. They found out that you were his only friend, so they began following you on the off-chance that he had contacted you. They were probably dogging you last night to those old abandoned subway tunnels. Now, it seems that they have the same problem. They can’t be sure that you actually found Mozzie, or that he was even squatting there. It works to our advantage that it will take quite a bit of time to identify a hoard of homeless people. That can buy us some time.”

“If you say so,” Neal said morosely. “Now tell me what comes next?”

“The next step is we make a few more copies of this recording and stash them in several safe places. I’ll leave that to you, Neal, since past experience has taught me that your hidden caches are sacrosanct. Over the years that you were amassing your hoard, the FBI could never find a trace. Then I’ll take one copy and give it to Hughes. Reese and I go back a long way and I would stake my life that he’s a straight arrow who would never be part of any kind of coverup, government-sanctioned or not.”

“Share the wealth,” Neal said cynically. “What do you think the old man can do?”

Peter shrugged. “It isn’t common knowledge, but I happen to know he has friends in high places in some covert operations. He wasn’t always tied to the FBI in the past. Maybe there’s a former colleague that he can trust.”

“And maybe I’ll take a few extra precautions,” Neal said mysteriously. “I’ll put a contingency plan in place just in case things go pear-shaped.”

“Maybe it’s best that I don’t know what you’re planning,” Peter remarked wisely as Neal nodded in agreement.

Both FBI agent and CI returned to the White Collar office. While Peter and Hughes were later having an outside lunch, Neal was doing his own thing. He had purchased some articles at a stationary store, and he then wrapped each of three little flash drives in bubble packing before inserting them into small parcels. Each little box also contained a cryptic note warning the individual recipients not to open the small enclosed article unless they heard that Peter, Neal, or Reese Hughes had died. It would be almost impossible for them to hear about Mozzie since he went by so many aliases. Regardless, if the recipient became aware of a premature death, they were instructed to set the wheels in motion by anonymously forwarding the “gift” to the national newspapers and news media in their respective countries. Neal carefully wrote out three addresses—Sara’s in London, Alex’s in Greece, and Sally’s, Mozzie’s hacker friend, right here in New York. Neal didn’t actually mail the items himself. He gave them to one of the probies to carry to a nearby post office. He wondered if that failsafe option would ever have to be implemented.

Peter and Hughes returned from lunch. Peter looked serious and Hughes could only be described as stone-faced. Neither man cast a look in his direction. Later in the day, the government actually put a new spin on the emerging story of the mass casualty count in the abandoned subway tunnels. It was reported that a natural gas line had ruptured far beneath the street and many homeless people squatting in the enclosed space had tragically died of asphyxiation. Neal could only wonder what would come next in this macabre drama. He would find out just two days later.

On that Thursday morning, Neal was quick to sense another round of tension in the bullpen. Peter wasn’t in his office. Neal’s gaze found him in Hughes’ office, but the old veteran FBI agent wasn’t sitting behind his desk. Instead, a very stern-looking older woman was having a discussion with Neal’s mentor.

“Who’s the new face?” Neal asked Diana curiously.

Diana actually glared at the upstairs balcony. “Her name’s Veronica Matthews and she sailed in today and informed us that’s she’s taking over for Hughes. The scuttlebutt that’s being disseminated is complete fake news. It’s being whispered that the chief was slowing down and making a lot of errors, and the higher ups were questioning his mental fitness to continue on as SAC. If you ask me, that’s a load of crap!”

Unfortunately, Peter was hearing his share of crap, as well. “Agent Burke, I believe there are some serious issues that we must address,” the imperious woman began her tirade. “It has come to the FBI’s attention that some gross irregularities have occurred over the course of your supervision of your CI. Agent Hughes may have let things slide, but that all stops now. OPR will be investigating several questionable incidences where it appears you may have covered up some of Caffrey’s less than legal activities.”

“That’s completely ridiculous,” Peter denied the allegation. “Just who are the actual people spreading those false rumors?”

“I am not at liberty to share their identities with you at this time,” was the answer he got.

“So, are you saying that I don’t have a right to confront my accusers?” Peter asked incredulously. “Just set me straight on this matter. Are you really going to jump on the bandwagon and try to derail my career on the strength of some anonymous tips?”

“Any derailing, if it happens, will be because you failed to follow protocol, Agent Burke,” the new SAC informed him haughtily. “Right now, you are definitely on the hot seat. You are relieved of your duties as of this minute. I’m putting you on suspension and you will surrender your credentials and your gun and be escorted from the building. You will take nothing with you, not even a coffee mug. We’ll be in touch at a later date.”

“What happens to Neal Caffrey during this witch hunt?” Peter managed to get in before his censure was over.

“The Marshals will be arriving to take him to his current residence where he will be sequestered under house arrest. You are prohibited from having any contact with him. Most likely, if this investigation drags on, he will be returned to prison because he’s a flight risk.”

There was nothing more Peter could say, although his thoughts turned in a very dark direction. He surmised that Hughes had approached someone he thought was a friend and that set things in cover-your-ass mode. Now the old man had been handily put out to pasture like a doddering old warhorse with a brain turned to mush. One by one, the covert faction in the government was taking care of business and eliminating all the other threats by discrediting them in some fashion. Peter was literally seething as he left the building while catching sight of Neal being surrounded by the Federal Marshals. However, he did manage to whisper a “watch your back” warning to his loyal crew as he left the 21st floor of what had once seemed like his home away from home.

Things went from bad to worse when Peter arrived at his townhouse in Brooklyn. In the few hours that he had been away, someone had broken into his home and ransacked it. Peter may have surrendered his service weapon, but he still had his backup piece, a tiny little firearm strapped to his ankle. When Neal had handed him that flash drive grenade a mere two days ago, he had prudently gotten it out of his gun safe and it became part of his everyday attire. He drew that gun now and cautiously tiptoed through the wreckage on the main floor as well as the upstairs. Eventually, he found poor Satchmo out on the patio looking haggard and sleepy. Probably tranquilized by the home invaders, was Peter’s first thought. Then rage began to build in his chest. They may had landed a roundhouse punch and knocked him down, but the bout wasn’t over yet. Peter would see this through, one way or the other.


	4. On the Lam

Peter had cleaned up as best as he could before Elizabeth arrived home. When she came through the door, he hurried her out onto the patio and proceeded to whisper the whole incredible tale to a wife who suddenly looked frightened and shell shocked.

“Peter, not only are you being railroaded, your life could be in danger,” she whispered back.

“I know, Hon, and that’s something I’ll deal with in my own fashion. Right now, I want to get you out of harm’s way. I’ve arranged for a neighbor to take care of Satchmo until Jones can pick him up tomorrow. I want you to go off to work in the morning just as you always do. Once you reach Burke Premier Events, call for an Uber using your assistant, Yvonne’s, phone to take you to the bus station. I want you to use cash to buy a seat on a Greyhound traveling north to where your parents live. You can’t take anything with you, not even a small suitcase. You’ll just have to have your mother do some shopping for you when you reach their house in Connecticut. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going, not even Yvonne. Your abrupt disappearance may seem strange to her, but I’m sure she’s perfectly capable of running your business for a while.”

“And what about you, Peter?” El asked fearfully.

“I’m going to talk to Neal and, between the two of us, we’ll figure something out,” Peter reassured her.

“I’m scared, Peter,” El admitted.

“Yeah, me, too, but I’m determined to fight back,” Peter vowed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter had foregone filing a police report about the break in. What would be the point? Nothing had actually been stolen, and these home invaders were professionals who wouldn’t have left a trace. Of course, Elizabeth hadn’t returned home that night because she was in flight mode. As the evening dusk turned to complete darkness, Peter realized that the black surveillance car was still parked on the opposite side of the street. So, he slipped out the back door of his home and began walking. When he was several blocks away, he used a newly purchased burner phone to call his own Uber ride that would take him into Manhattan.

Years ago, when Neal had taken up residence in June Ellington’s home, Peter was prudently proactive. He obtained the architectural plans and quickly noted that the site of Byron’s former illegal sports parlor located in the loft area had a hidden access tunnel that ran underground from a nearby barber shop. It was a relic from the days of speak easies and bootlegging. Using a set of his own lock picks, Peter entered the darkened shop and found the cleverly-hidden door in the basement behinds cartons of shaving cream and hair tonic.

It didn’t take him long to find himself in Neal’s walk-in closet. He heard voices coming from the living area and actually groaned when he saw Mozzie, bold as brass, sipping a glass of wine.

“Well, if it isn’t the Pied Piper of Hamlin who lured a parade of rats to follow him as his played his little tune.” Peter snarked. “Aren’t you afraid to poke your head above ground, Mozzie?”

Mozzie had the grace to look devastatingly guilty. “Being underground wasn’t as safe as you think, Suit. Many unfortunate souls found that out just recently, and it was because of me. And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I ever opened this lethal can of worms and brought hellfire down on your heads, too. I should have just walked away and let sleeping dogs lie.”

Peter cocked his head. “Are you really sure it’s safe to be here, Mozzie? You do know the house is being watched.”

“Yeah, yeah, I saw Archie and Jughead sitting in their _undercover_ sedan,” Mozzie snorted. “I actually used the same tunnel you just did, not that it makes a whole lot of difference. I’m small fry now to these evil folks since everything has gotten out after your department chief tipped his hand. But in case you’re still worried about talking freely, let me reassure you that this place has been thoroughly exterminated and there are no longer any bugs.”

Mozzie then indicated two little crushed green circular discs with wires dangling from them. “Those are state-of-the art listening devices, so it proves the theory that we’re playing in the big leagues now. Who knows exactly how far up this cancer has spread?”

“So, what’s our plan going forward?” Peter asked as his head turned to Neal and then Mozzie.

Apparently, the little bald man was comfortable taking point. “I think the scenario will play out like this. Records will be altered and the investigating panel will find manufactured evidence of criminal collusion between the two of you. Neal will go back to prison and it’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel. Either an inmate will kill him or a guard. And you, Suit, will be out on your ass. If you do manage to find some little accounting firm that may hire you, chances are it won’t take long for you to be the unfortunate victim of a mugging gone bad. Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am!”

“Well, you certainly don’t have any trouble painting a rosy picture, Moz,” Neal sighed. “How about some less dire alternatives.”

“Of course, mon frère, how’s this for a suggestion,” Mozzie quipped. “We run, even you, Suit,” he added. “Neal and I are very experienced and proficient evaders so we can teach you the ropes.”

“I’m sure you can, but running away from a problem isn’t my style,” Peter answered adamantly.

“So, are you determined to make a last stand like those fools did at the Alamo?” Mozzie asked cynically. “Do you want Mrs. Suit to become a widow at a young age?”

“I’ve already had her leave to stay with her parents in Connecticut,” Peter explained.

“Hmm, maybe she could take a little vacation to Niagara Falls, the Canadian side, of course,” Mozzie said thoughtfully. “Then there’s the option of an Airb&b in charming Nova Scotia. Regardless, a trip over the border is a good idea until we can figure some things out.”

“I told you, Mozzie, I’m not running away from this problem,” Peter insisted.

“Don’t think of it as running,” Neal chimed in. “Think of it as temporarily retreating to regroup. It’s a very logical tactical maneuver that generals and their armies have done repeatedly over the centuries during sieges of warfare. And to give you a modicum of hope, I just may have a few aces up my sleeve that I can play at the proper time. They could be very valuable as leverage in this little battle. Please, Peter, have a little faith and just trust me.”

Peter looked thoughtful. “So, exactly where would we go?”

“I’ve got that all figured out and reinforcements are on the way,” Mozzie promised. “Come back this time tomorrow night and we’ll go on the first leg of our journey.”

Before Peter could answer, Neal was shoving a burner phone into Peter’s hand. “Call Elizabeth and explain about Canada, and then tell her not to worry. Moz and I have got your back.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It was hard for Peter to sit on his hands and wait for the ax to fall across his neck. This was some scary shit that Peter would have never dreamed would happen in the exalted echelons of the FBI. Maybe it was time that he faced facts and took off the rose-colored glasses. Any organization can have rotten apples in the barrel who are capable of corrupting others. But how did one live their everyday lives if they always had to be suspicious and frightened of institutions that were set up to administer justice as well as protect the innocent? The FBI was supposed to keep people safe, not put them in jeopardy.

The more Peter pondered in his empty house, the more he came to realize that because an ideal had died, he was going through the stages of grief just like a person did when they lost someone. At first, he had been in the denial stage, refusing to believe that the government would go to such vile lengths for whatever agenda they had. Now he was in the isolation stage, obviously, and moving on into anger. Maybe he wasn’t even capable of progressing from that stage into bargaining or acceptance. He would never accept this travesty.

Nonetheless, like a robot, he collected a few things into a rucksack the next night and again slipped his surveillance. Neal and Mozzie were waiting for him in June’s mansion. “Are you ready to go on the run, Suit?” Mozzie asked very seriously.

“Yeah, for the time being anyway,” Peter answered with commitment.

“Okay, then, let’s get this show on the road. Do you still have a key to Neal’s anklet?” Mozzie asked.

“They had me surrender that at the FBI office, but I’m a Boy Scout, so I took precautions years ago so that I could be prepared,” Peter smirked as he pulled a little key from his pocket.

“You may have potential yet,” Mozzie grinned. “After you do the honors and then quickly reconnect the thing, we’ll make tracks. The Marshals may think it was just a tiny blip of interference and not get all hot and bothered. It will gain us precious time before we meet our ride waiting at the barber shop.”

Their “ride” was actually a nondescript white box truck idling at the back of the establishment. Peter took quick note of a muddied blue and white license plate but not the actual state it represented. The trio of fugitives found that the back of the truck was crammed with three narrow cots and sleeping bags. The young African-American driver told them to take a load off and get comfortable. “We got ourselves a twelve-hour drive, my good buddies, and I intend to keep going non-stop except for gas. So, you all better be prepared to hold your water until I make the occasional quick detour to some back roads.”

The vehicle reached the northern suburbs of Detroit, Michigan just before lunch the next day, and three men cautiously exited inside a garage next to an orphanage. They tried to work the kinks out of their sore muscles as Mozzie went in search of his beloved Mr. Jeffries. When the tall man appeared with his infectious smile, he remarked, “I hear you fellas might have gotten yourselves in a little jam back East.”

Peter was not happy. “I’m very sorry to drag you into this, Sir. We should leave right away to keep you safe.”

Jeffries laughed. “Now who do you think would even dream that you’d be hunkered down for the night with a clan of ragamuffin orphans in Detroit? This is just a waystation on an underground railroad, so to speak. Mozzie is an old friend of mine, and that makes you my friends, as well. You’ll stay for dinner and then get some rest. Tomorrow you’re in for another 300 miles of road until you cross over onto Canadian soil.”

Before Peter could object, Mozzie chimed in. “Hakuna matata, Suit. For your enlightenment, that’s Swahili for ‘no worries.’ I’ve got three new shiny Canadian passports for us, so the border crossing should go like clockwork.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Peter answered as Neal snickered.

That night, as the three men tried to sleep in an attic room, Peter had to ask. “Is this what it was like when I was chasing you, Neal?”

Neal chuckled. “Maybe not all cloak and dagger stuff,” he conceded. “It was more like private jets and yachts to make my getaways. But I’m flexible, so I can adapt. The question is, can you, Peter?”

“You promised this state of affairs was just temporary, so I’ll give you some time to work your magic.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Peter,” Neal murmured softly. “It means a lot.”

The next morning, a little bald man drove an old model station wagon that took the three fleeing fugitives to another country. As Mozzie predicted, there were no snags, and they were welcomed “back home” into Canada with open arms. Mr. Jeffries had arranged for the temporary sublet of a small apartment in a little sleepy town, and the ex-pats settled in. Neal proved to be a pretty decent cook, and they passed the evenings playing poker. Everyone checked the nightly news for any mention of their names, as well as scouring the New York Times on the Internet. Strangely, there wasn’t a peep about any of the three.

“They’re keeping a lid on things until they figure out what we’re up to,” Neal said like a wise oracle. “I think we should let them sweat for a while before we make our next move.”

“Just what is that next move, exactly?” Peter asked irritably. Although he was able to talk to his wife every night by burner phone, the former FBI agent and devoted husband missed her terribly as the days dragged on into weeks. He also missed his house, his dog, and his job. In essence, this waiting game made him feel like a nonentity who had ceased to exist.

“You have to be patient, Peter,” Neal chided. “This is something akin to a long con and you have to play your part.”

“I’m a man of action, Neal. I don’t like waiting around like a spider hoping my prey will someday walk into my web.”

“You’ve got that backwards, Suit,” Mozzie objected. “The government trolls are waiting for us to wander into their web.”

“Whatever!” Peter huffed. “Just lay out the plan for me, please. I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

“Don’t you want plausible deniability, Peter?” Neal asked innocently.

“I think it’s too late to trot out that lame excuse. I’m up to my neck in your shenanigans,” Peter huffed out.

“Okay, okay, Suit, just chill your jets,” Mozzie relented. “Perhaps it is time for me to make the next move in this chess game. I’ll leave tomorrow for New York.”

“What are you going to do when you get there?” Peter asked, almost in dread.

“I’m going to beard the lion in his den,” was the short answer.


	5. The Ultimatum

Mozzie realized that the burden fell on his shoulders to make this right. After all, it was his Internet spelunking that had set this whole thing in motion, so it should rightfully be his neck on the chopping block if his and Neal’s plan didn’t work. He drove back to Detroit and boarded an Amtrak train bound for Grand Central Station in Manhattan. He didn’t tarry long in the terminal before cabbing it uptown to the Federal Building. He boldly presented his Canadian passport at security and dutifully emptied his pockets as he went through the metal detectors. “Don’t be a philistine if you wand me,” he warned the guard. “I treasure my family jewels.”

Once that indecency was out of the way, Mozzie took the elevator to the 21st floor and brazenly strutted through the glass doors into the bullpen. It gave him great pleasure to see Jones and Diana’s astounded expressions as he passed their desks and made his way up the stairs. Without knocking, he boldly sauntered into the new SAC’s office. Agent Matthews looked up irritably at this unexpected intrusion.

“Madam, I think we need to talk,” Mozzie began. “I’m going to relate a very clear message to you, which you most likely won’t understand because you’re just a tiny link in a very long chain. I hope that you are savvy enough to pass the information along up that chain until, eventually, it reaches where it needs to be.”

“I don’t know you or comprehend what you are saying,” Matthews answered angrily. “Perhaps I’ll have you escorted from the premises if you don’t go willingly.”

“Do you value your career, Madam?” Mozzie said tauntingly. “If you want to remain at your elevated GS level, perhaps you will just sit back and hear me out. Feel free to take notes if you find it is necessary.”

Suddenly, Veronica Matthews had second thoughts and leaned back in her chair. “All right, say what you need to say and then I’ll decide if you’re some kind of crackpot. That certainly won’t bode well for you.”

“Wise choice,” Mozzie replied sarcastically. “It’s always prudent to err on the side of caution when looking out for number one. Now let me get down to business.”

Mozzie cleared his throat and pulled himself erect to his full short stature before continuing. “I am in possession of a very dark secret related to some recently unleashed mayhem. It was a despicable act of malice perpetrated by soldiers in your realm. But be warned, I’m not some stupid rube intending to throw myself on anyone’s mercy. I am a very careful man and have left Easter eggs in baskets across the globe with very specific instructions for distribution of those goodies if certain things are not immediately rectified. If some people in high places do not wish to find themselves with egg on their faces, they will set things right for the innocents involved in this diabolical plot. Here’s my phone number,” Mozzie added as he dropped a piece of paper onto Matthews’ desk.

The older woman listened without expression, but it was obvious to Mozzie that she was completely in the dark and trying to hide her ignorance.

“Your bosses have exactly 48 hours to get back to me with their decision since the ball is now in their court,” her visitor proclaimed as he turned on his heel and left her office. He managed to give Jones and Diana a wink as he sauntered towards the elevators. Once back on the street, he melted into the crowd and made his way toward _Wednesday_, his second favorite safe house. Time would tell if the threat had enough teeth in its bite to make the federal government stand down. Mozzie could only hope.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, Veronica Matthews and OPR were conspicuously absent from the White Collar office. Neal, with anklet in place, was sitting on the edge of Diana’s desk teasing her about her sweater’s neckline. Jones was looking on with a smirk on his face. Peter was in the White Collar Unit, as well, although he wasn’t in his old office. Instead, he was sitting at Hughes’ former desk doing what SACs do, perusing files and keeping an eye on his agents in the bullpen. He sighed and carefully closed a folder before standing to shrug into his suit coat.

“Be good, kids,” he said with a smile as he passed his team on his way to the elevators. He was keeping a very important lunch date in a tucked away little deli down on the Lower East Side. Reese Hughes had arrived first and had a coffee mug in front of him as he was drawing lazy circles on the checkered tablecloth with his spoon. Peter smiled and shook his former boss’s hand before taking a seat opposite him.

“Thanks for meeting with me, Reese,” Peter said fondly.

“So how’s it feel being the unit’s new SAC?” Hughes asked gruffly.

“I can’t help thinking I don’t deserve it,” Peter admitted. “You should be sitting in your rightful seat, not me.”

“Even if they had offered it to me again, I would have declined,” the old man confessed. “Maybe I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I really don’t want to be there anymore. I’m tired, Peter—tired of all the political games and the hoops that I’ve had to jump through over the years. In the end, I often wonder if I ever really made a difference. Now I can relax and enjoy my pension without any headaches while I wear that gold watch they gave me as a retirement gift.”

“You were a constant defining influence on me, Reese, like a polestar guiding me along the path to real justice,” Peter argued.

“Well, perhaps the rules of the game have changed over time, and it’s not so easy to distinguish who the bad guys are anymore. If there’s one thing that I can’t tolerate, it’s duplicity,” Hughes said sincerely.

“Do you consider me duplicitous because I agreed to step into your shoes instead of being a brave whistleblower?” Peter asked hesitantly.

Hughes stared deep into his lunch companion’s eyes. “You did what you had to do, and being wisely pragmatic isn’t a sin, Peter. You were always one of the good ones with high ideals, and I hope this new responsibility doesn’t eat you alive. You played the hand you were dealt and I’m impressed that you managed to outfox the foxes,” Peter’s old mentor chuckled. “Care to tell me how you did it? Obviously, you somehow have the bad guys by the short hairs.”

“I really can’t take any credit for turning the tables and gaining the upper hand,” Peter admitted. “A very clever friend who is sitting in the White Collar office right now, and his quirky little associate, who is probably gadding about all over the city as we speak, set the whole thing in motion. I believe they engineered something akin to a Mexican standoff.”

“Well, good for them,” Hughes actually laughed. “Sort of reminds me of the Cold War when the East and West were both threatening each other with nukes and complete annihilation while daring the other to blink.”

“Yeah, I guess you have seen it all during your long career,” Peter mused.

“More than I care to remember,” Hughes said philosophically. “What _you _should remember is how fortunate you are to have real friends that you can trust with your life.”

Peter nodded before continuing. “But what I can’t forget is that a human being was murdered by agents of our own government,” he almost snarled.

Hughes sighed. “If it’s any consolation to you, when I was being debriefed, I was shown proof that Amos Wellsley was in league with terror organizations both here and abroad. They were funneling money into his political coffers and he was making unlawful promises to them if he managed to get elected. He was definitely not a good man, Peter, and America is better off with him gone. I don’t know if the citizens of this country could withstand another 9-11.”

“So the government simply decided to eliminate him without benefit of due process and a trial,” Peter said quietly. “How is that a democratic judicial system working within the rules set out in the Constitution? That sounds more like something that happens in a totalitarian regime.”

Hughes sighed. “Peter, this isn’t some new concept. Don’t act like a babe in the woods. For decades, operatives and mercenaries sent by our government to foreign countries have been responsible for many such assassinations. It’s the way the spy game is played by all participants around the world, and it probably always will be.”

“So, are you saying that you’re comfortable sweeping all this under the rug?” Peter asked.

“Comfortable isn’t exactly the right word, Peter. I would say that I’m more resigned that these things are going to occur for whatever reason. But I try to maintain a sense of hope that there are more cool heads than hot heads charting the course of our country’s future.”

“Reese, please don’t forget that other innocent people in an old subway tunnel were gassed to death during this crusade.” Peter said harshly. “Don’t their lives matter.”

“In war, I think they would be called collateral damage,” Hughes replied sadly.

When Peter didn’t respond and kept silent, Hughes finally broke the impasse. “Peter, there is no statute of limitations on murder. If you find that one day you can’t live with your conscience, then go after the faceless big boys pulling the strings. You have the evidence; make it public. If you wish to garner more notoriety than Edward Snowden, I sincerely wish you luck.”

~~~~~~~~~~

After lunch, Peter made his way back to the office. Neal saw him come through the doors and immediately stood up when he saw his handler’s conflicted expression.

“Is everything okay, Buddy?” he asked in concern.

“For now, Neal,” Peter said softly as he put his arm around the young CI’s shoulder. “I guess I’ve just got a lot of thinking to do about the future.” The new SAC was pondering the wisdom of tipping that first domino that would start a whole parade of others to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edward Joseph Snowden is an American whistle-blower who copied and leaked highly classified information from the National Security Agency in 2013 when he was a Central Intelligence Agency employee and subcontractor.


End file.
